The Stilinskis' Travelin' Show
by tinahhdee
Summary: AU! "That night, Stiles stumbled upon new copies of the play bills for their upcoming shows on his father's desk. One of the entries read: Derek, THE TEEN WOLF! And that's where all the hot mess started."
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Stilinskis' Travelin' Show

**Fandom:** Teen Wolf

**Pairings:** Derek/Stiles (main); side Scott/Allison and Jackson/Lydia/Kate

**Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf is this show on MTV. Unfortunately, I like watching it with slash goggles on.

**Rating:** PG-13 (NC-17 in future parts)

**Warnings:** AU, utter crack!, mild angst, character deaths, quite possibly erroneous understanding of circus life

**Author's Note:** Unbeta'd all mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

Stiles supposes that this _whole hot mess_ started when his father took in that wolf man.

It was a dark and stormy night (like, no, _seriously_.) They were wrapping up a show in Bumfuck, Nowhere USA, when Stiles' father heard it: a loud _crash-bang _followed by distressed screeching and a stomach curdling howl. It appeared to have come from the animal pit. Every able bodied hand rushed to the scene and they all gawped at the sight of a half man, half wolf like creature, crouching at the center of the pit, which was grotesquely covered in feathers and blood. Stiles would have found it funny – the covered in feathers bit – if it weren't for all the damn blood.

Plus, the wolf man? He looked fucking _rabid,_ dude!

Until now, Stiles doesn't know how their crew did it, but after 20 minutes of chaos they had the wolf man subdued, bound and put in a steel cage. _The Stilinski's Travelin' Show_ lost about two flamingos, half a dozen chickens and even a fully grown female lion. On the upside, they seem to have gotten their latest attraction.

The next morning though, it seemed all they did have locked in a cage was a very muscular, very fatigued, very naked young man.

Stiles tried hard not to dwell on the fact that he was naked.

He was watching from several feet away – watching his father who was stood next to the cage attempting to speak to the _man _in his trappings. The latter looked up at Mr. Stilinski with a mixture of hate and dread – with copious amounts of hate. And for a split second Stiles wondered if reinforced steel cages were all the hype they're manufacturers claimed them to be.

But then –

Then his father leaned in close to the cage to gingerly slip his hand through a couple of bars and Stiles barely stifled a whimper at the insane shit he was witnessing just then.

As it turns out, his alarm was in vain when the man – _wolf man_ – took Stiles' father's offered hand in his and gave it a very human and surprisingly polite shake.

That night, Stiles stumbled upon new copies of the play bills for their upcoming shows on his father's desk. One of the entries read: _Derek, THE TEEN WOLF!_

And that's where all the hot mess started.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER<strong>

**-1-**

_One Month Later_

Stiles swears he's not ogling the Strong Man because Stiles Stilinksi does _not_ ogle. He's also _not _camped out in said Strong Man's tent to watch him lift impossibly heavy things nor is Stiles watching his muscles flex and turn taut and…

Alright, so maybe he _is_ ogling. But it's not exactly Stiles' fault Jackson looks so fucking hot in his barely-there loin cloth. The Ring Master's son pulls his coat over his lap then to conceal his very obvious hard on. He's struggling – quite ineffectually – to summon very unsexy thoughts to quell the fucking forest fire in his jeans.

"Give it up, _Romeo_. No matter how hard you stare, it's not exactly possible to make Jackson reciprocate your feelings out of sheer will."

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin. He snapped his head to the side only to find his best friend, Scott making to sit down next to him. He resolutely ignored how hot and prickly his cheeks were beginning to feel.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Stiles finally got around to glancing at his friend from where his eyes were downcast to his beaten sneakers. He wasn't so surprised to find that Scott was smirking at him knowingly. But beneath the jibe, his dark eyes were warm, apologetic even.

It made Stiles feel a _gagillion_ times worse.

"I know," he sighed. "He and Lydia are practically joined at the hip. Well, if Lydia wasn't already _literally _joined at the hip with Kate."

Scott chuckled at that. "True. But even if he weren't, I don't think he'd be amenable to liking dick."

"I don't know, Scott. I could probably turn him around. What with my cock being magic and all."

"Dude, you're so fucking gross!" Scott whelped but there was no heat behind the words. "Seriously though, how do they _do _it, man? With Lydia being all Siamese and shit?"

"Do what? Make the relationship work or do the dirty?"

"Both!"

"Beats the shit out of me, dude. But they do. And so far it looks like things are going great. Too great, if you ask me."

Scott playfully bumped his shoulder against Stiles', the latter noticing belatedly how bitter he just sounded.

And so what? So what if he was secretly and painfully pining away for the Strong Man, however pointless it was? And so what if Jackson didn't really even give him the time of day? (Which was sort of unfair considering he's the Ring Master's son after all. That had to count for _something_, right?) And so what if Jackson apparently thought Stiles was a bit annoying, _at best_?—

Still, things weren't so bad. Not with his best friend Scott around, traveling along with him this summer.

The _Travelin' Show_ took their homecoming retreat to Beacon Hills early this year, a couple of months before the regular kids started their summer break. Stiles wasn't exactly enrolled in a proper school like everyone else was. But his dad still wanted him to have an education and everything. Yet ever since Mr. Stilinski's wife died, he wasn't exactly comfortable being without Stiles around, trailing his side. The Ring Master or The Sheriff (as he was lovingly addressed by his staff) was an old softy at heart. A bit emotionally constipated, sure. But you know, _softy_. And he showed his apprehension and separation anxiety by giving Stiles piles and piles of menial chores just so he could say his son was needed enough to make him stay.

All he really had to do was ask.

Stiles didn't actually mind. In fact, he preferred traveling with his dad, caravanning around the continental US of A! He despised school but that's not to say he was equally opposed to learning.

An agreement of sorts was unwittingly formed shortly after when Stiles indoctrinated himself into being his dad's permanent and personal lackey. It was also about the same time his dad cashed out on a tutor flexible enough to travel along with them.

Anyway, it was on one of their previously mentioned Beacon Hills homecoming did Stiles meet Scott. The minute Stiles mentioned traveling circus, the two were inseparable. And this particular summer, Mrs. McCall, Scott's mom, finally caved in and agreed to have her son tag along the summer circuit. Provided he pulled his weight.

So Scott was temporarily hired as a stage hand. And he was so fucking excited about it, too.

But while Stiles knew Scott was still dorkily all-hyped about the show after all these years, he had his suspicions that maybe his friend had an ulterior motive to coming.

And here she walked in now—

"Allison." They both said. Though knowing Scott, it was more a sigh than an actual statement.

Allison Argent was the resident Tight Rope Walker and Trapeze Artist but she occasionally joined in Jackson's act to nimbly walk on whatever object The Strong Man was lifting with one arm.

Scott fell for her the minute she walked out on the line, suspended one hundred feet in the air.

"Hey, Romeo? Staring isn't exactly cute. It's actually kind of creepy. Scratch that, it's _a lot_ creepy."

Stiles couldn't help it.

For all his jokes, Scott had the decency to duck his head and blush. And Stiles counted it as a win because turnabout is fair play. However you looked at it.

* * *

><p>The pair had lunch at the Lion's Den.<p>

Yes, an actual den with actual lions but this is a circus show after all so it's all pretty normal.

They didn't exactly eat _in_ the den. Stiles and Scott mostly just wolfed down their sandwiches, the two propped up on the bleachers as they raptly watched Feeble Mr. Finstock the Lion Tamer waggle about the sunken ring, assuaging the lionesses to climb and sway in strategically choreographed motions – athletic and agile, graceful yet powerful and somewhat hypnotic.

Their routine changed every two weeks. But let's face it; one could only make lionesses do so much with a flick of the wrist and a couple of soothing words.

This week though, the eccentric Tamer had outdone himself.

Then again, he always does. That's Bobby Finstock for you.

* * *

><p>Feeling full and significantly entertained, Stiles figured he could take a quick nap before he resumed doing his "Executive Assistant to the Ring Master" duties later that afternoon. It was mostly just paperwork today anyway.<p>

It's become a focus of hilarity that while Mr. Stilinski for all his pragmatic and serious ways possessed an uncanny quality of showmanship (he had been quite the magician back in the day), Stiles on the other hand, for all of his quirks did not appear to show any inclination for any such talent worthy of a circus billing.

Awkward and quirky Stiles was just that, awkward and quirky.

He was basically every other 17 year old boy going through puberty, which isn't all that special when compared to the other exciting and flashy performers they had in the show.

Stiles liked to read.

And he had an almost encyclopedic knowledge about local and foreign supernatural lore throughout the world as well as a whole 'nother jumble of weird factoids zipping about in his head. Things nobody even knew were real or true.

Or found interesting, really.

He was alone in his little bubble of imaginings. Sure Scott was there to talk to about his interests but the same fiery, geek-boy passion wasn't as strong. Half the time too, Scott would insist on talking about Allison and Stiles can only barely restrain his eye-rolls for the sake of being polite during the best of times.

The weary teen sighed, half a yawn and half wistfulness as he unlocked the door to his very own trailer (which his dad finally agreed to let him have because his books and several hundred flannel shirts were taking up too much space in the one they previously shared.)

He had every intention of flopping down on his cot to generally pass out. But because this is Stiles' life, he was never that lucky.

Stiles would deny that the sound he made was a squeal. It wasn't. It only sounded like one, okay? He wouldn't even have made such an incriminatingly girly sound in the first place if he had not opened his door to find a werewolf lounging about on his desk chair – flipping through his comic books.

How Derek got in with the door locked, Stiles will never know. Not like he _wants_ to know either.

The surprise "visits"were becoming more and more frequent as of late. Stiles would almost always find the wolf man in his trailer either rummaging through his things or scanning his books and basically just hanging around the place. One time, Derek even lazed out on the cot to ultimately fall asleep there for 10 whole hours.

Honestly, Stiles shouldn't even be surprised anymore but Derek did that to him. He was a werewolf for fucks sake! Who can – apparently – magically walk through locked metal doors.

A werewolf who could easily tear Stiles' throat out for kicks.

The moment Derek was officially enlisted on the bill, he subsequently developed an "attachment" to the Ring Master's son. Well it wasn't so much an attachment as it was a gravitational pull. This was both baffling and a hairsbreadth away from incredulous. Not to mention fucking insane! Surely, Derek didn't find Stiles _that_ amusing (because no one else did, that much was painfully clear) for him to go on about doing shit like this.

_Or maybe Derek just liked scaring him?_

That's what Stiles thinks. In fact he's positive Derek has made it his life's mission to undo Stiles every chance he gets. With his scary voice, his sharp claws, his brash and brooding demeanor, his hard-set jaw, broad shoulders, electric-blue eyes and…

"Dude, what the actual fuck—?"

"You've updated your Superman comics," came the cool reply. It wasn't a question.

Stiles let his mouth hang open. He didn't respond for several seconds because… what is the etiquette for situations like this? More importantly, how the hell do you tell a werewolf to leave your stuff alone without getting said werewolf mad and without getting torn to pieces? And Stiles has seen Derek angry, like that one time during the full moon...

Stiles had nightmares for days.

He shudders at the memory.

Derek suddenly looked up then, diverting all his attention towards the teen sagging against the door. His face completely neutral… or frustrated, Stiles doesn't know. Because Derek only has one look about him: the don't-make-any-sudden-movements-or-else-I'll-tear-you-apart look. That's what everyone calls it. It also comes in varying degrees of intensity. Stiles is just thankful that it's set to low this afternoon.

"You _do_ have your own trailer. You know that, right? It's the one with your name on the door, in big bold letters."

The werewolf quirked an eyebrow and Stiles would have flinched if he wasn't already gritting his teeth really, really hard.

"Like I said, you've updated your Superman comics." And with that, Derek returned to his reading.

* * *

><p>It was several minutes later when the wolf man spoke again. Several minutes Stiles used to "tidy up" his living space while carefully avoiding making eye contact with the unwelcomed company. He wanted to look busy (so he could go about getting his pulse rate to return to normal.)<p>

"Stiles," Derek's voice cut through the thick veil of unease the teenager has ensconced himself in. "Just sit down and calm yourself. Your heartbeat is deafening and distracting, I can't understand what I'm reading."

Stiles hurriedly obeys. He perches himself awkwardly on the edge of his tiny bed, Derek following his every move.

"By the way, you smell _horrible_. You've been hanging around Finstock's tent again, haven't you?"

"If you don't like how it smells in here you could always, y'know, step out."

Derek eyes Stiles thoughtfully – searching the teen's face for something Stiles isn't completely sure what.

Whatever he finds though, Derek isn't pleased with it. He frowns a little. Or his general, everyday permanent frown deepens.

"I get it. Your house, your rules." He stands and makes for the door but not before he noiselessly returned Stiles' comic book in the exact same spot he found it.

With his back to Stiles, Derek adds, "the lions make you smell horrible but it's tolerable. _Jackson _(he practically snarled) on the other hand? Well, unpleasant doesn't even cover it."

If Derek slams the door more forcefully than he intends to, Stiles doesn't notice. He's too preoccupied with cringing in embarrassment at the fact that even the werewolf knows he has a thing for Jackson.

Was he really that obvious?

Well, obvious enough that Derek literally _smelled _it on him. Stiles might as well have had an erection pointing in the general direction of the Strong Man's whereabouts.

He opts to skip the nap entirely in favor of staring at his trailer's low ceiling. What's left of his dignity won't allow him to anyway.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The Stilinski's Travelin' Show

**Fandom:** Teen Wolf

**Pairings:** Derek/Stiles (main); side Scott/Allison and Jackson/Lydia/Kate

**Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf is this show on MTV. Unfortunately, I like watching it with slash goggles on.

**Chapter Rating:** PG-13 (NC-17 in future parts)

**General Warnings:** AU, utter crack!, angst, character deaths,

quite possibly erroneous understanding of circus lif

**Chapter Warnings:** slight gore, plot development?

**A/N 1: **Thank you for all the lovely comments and favorites and follows! This is honestly my first ever published Slash Fiction - first Fanfiction even. I got so excited when I opened my e-mail to find loads of alerts this morning and immediately set about to working on a new chapter. I hope you guys like this one. And oh, did I mention there's plot development? There's a couple more chapters after this. And it won't be long until actual slash happens, I promise! Please comment. Those and feedback would be greatly appreciated. :)

**A/N 2:** For those wondering what's up with the Stiles/Jackson pairing, it's unrequited. Unless there are people who don't want it to be? LOL. Also, it's largely Stiles-centric so I can maintain the story structure & flow though I would love to do one in Derek's. Maybe I'll do a time stamp or a B-side. Maybe.

**A/N 3:** Unbeta'd all mistakes are my own.

**Summary: **

_"That night, Stiles stumbled upon new copies of the play bills for their upcoming shows on his father's desk. One of the entries read: Derek, THE TEEN WOLF!_

_And that's where all the hot mess started." _

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER<strong>

**-2-**

Scott's knees were useless. They've apparently turned to Jell-O and instead of helping the rest of his legs work they tremble and buckle making the boy fall on his ass. He slips shaky hands into his pant pockets searching for his inhaler.

Of course he doesn't find them.

Scott could feel his lungs collapsing, his chest tightening. Clipped strangled sounds, half gasp and half scream, escape his lips and he wonders peripherally if Allison were here to see him like this, would she think less of him?

Maybe not, considering the fact that there was half a dead body at his feet.

The girl's eyes were glazed over white, lifeless. Dead.

_Dead._

Her legs were torn – ravaged – from under her. She lay on her stomach or what was left of her stomach with her face screwed up to one side and Scott's mind supplies that human necks really don't turn around that far back. Muscles, flesh, sinew and then bone on display, framed in blood and deluge. Clear as day in the shroud of night.

_Jesus her spine was snapped in two! _

Scott could taste the bile on his tongue and feel his dinner threatening to rip its way out of him through his throat. His pulse was pounding deafeningly in his ears.

The carcass looked _fresh_, probably not more than a day old…

Then the realization hit him; it was so instantaneous it actually hurt.

_What if the killer was still there? _

Scott leapt to his feet. Animal or human, it didn't matter. He wasn't staying to find out.

Suddenly his knees weren't as useless anymore as he bolted towards the clearing, running as fast as he could. The hot wind blew away the dirt and tears from his face. But it could not whisk away the image in his mind: _of torn flesh, of blood, of cold unseeing eyes._

Somewhere a wolf howls. But that could've just been his imagination.

* * *

><p>Stiles had about a second to think '<em>What the fuck?' <em>when someone collided into his side, knocking the breath out of him and the flashlight from his loose grasp.

"Stiles!" says the offender, harried and breathy.

Stiles' back hurt like a bitch – the momentum toppling them both over like teenage-sized dominos, one on top of the other. He blinked the spots from his eyes and silently cursed every pagan god and lesser god he could name off of the top of his head.

"Y'know," he drawls. "I didn't think you were into the whole football scene. I'd tell you you'd make a pretty good linebacker if I didn't want to _strangle_ you first."

But his annoyance quickly melted away when he saw the look on Scott's face – spooked beyond his wits and trembling all over.

"Dude, you alright? Where have you been? Everyone's been looking for you. We'll be heading out to the next town soon and—"

"A girl, in the woods. There's this girl in the woods and… and…"

"A girl? What girl?"

"The dead girl!"

"There's a dead girl in the woods?"

"Yes, Stiles! Fuck. Stop _smiling_. How can you even find this amusing?"

"I don't know. So, wait… There's a _dead girl_ in _the woods_?"

"YES! Dammit, yes! I saw her, okay? I saw her! Her legs were torn off and—"

"Holy hell, her legs were torn off? Torn off how? Like they were hacked off?" Stiles couldn't fight down his excitement. Oh, there was horror and panic in there too. But as sick as it is, there was the excitement.

Scott fell silent. His pupils were blown wide and it made his eyes grow dark.

"No. It looked like they were clawed off."

* * *

><p>The trip was delayed for a day due to an on-going investigation.<p>

Awesome.

Despite the apparent asthma attack, Scott was talking loud enough (he was close to hysterics but Stiles held his tongue) that the patrolling officers investigating a missing person's report (that have come around to their show because Fate was a bitch that way) overheard him.

Naturally they pulled him aside to bombard him with questions. Stiles tried to get in between his best friend and the cops but he was unceremoniously shoved aside. Scott threw him nervous glances over his shoulder as they led him away. All Stiles could do was offer his friend a lop-sided grin and a couple of thumbs-up.

It didn't help any.

* * *

><p>The next morning found Stiles having breakfast with his father in his father's trailer.<p>

When his son "moved out", Mr. Stilinski used the freed up space to put in a little dining area/kitchenette where he could eat and have coffee in peace. It made the place look homier, really. And yeah, the eats bit. Stiles took advantage every chance he got.

"I haven't heard from Scott all night. Are they done with him yet?"

Mr. Stilinski peered at his son over the paper he'd been leafing through. "How about you swallow first, son? And then ask me your question again."

Stiles hastily downed the big-ass chunk of Sausage McMuffin he'd been lolling around in his over-stuffed mouth with a swig of Coke and proceeded to wipe his lips with the back of his hand.

His dad chuckled. His first real laugh in ages.

"Are you sure it's _my _eating habits you should be worried about? At the rate you're going, you'll die of a stroke at twenty-five."

"I haven't heard from Scott all night. Are the cops done grilling him yet?" his son asked impatiently, completely ignoring his father's jibes.

Mr. Stilinski let out a sigh, drawing it out (and not entirely for dramatic effect.) The Ring Master rubbed at his temples. He looks tired. More tired than usual, like the kind of tired sleeping twelve whole hours a day – _everyday_ – can't fix.

Stiles spared a thought for his late mother. Everything was better when his mom was alive. Hell, even the shows were better. And he was pretty sure his dad wouldn't look half as bad or half as wrung out.

Or half as lonely.

"Melissa is going to kill me," his dad says after a beat.

"It's not your fault."

"No, but Scott _is _my responsibility. He may have come out here because he wanted to but now that he is, it automatically puts him in the not-so-short list of asses I have to keep in check." A pause. "My hands are already full with _you _alone."

"You flatter me, sir."

"It wasn't my intention."

"Touché."

They eat in silence shortly after that – nothing but the crinkling of the paper wrappers of Stiles' sandwiches and the clinking of a teaspoon in his father's coffee cup keeping them company.

"Are there bears around here?" Stiles broke through the silence because his mouth is of the opinion that silences are one of the things in life it was made to break.

"If you haven't noticed, son, we run a circus show. Of course we have bears around here."

"I didn't mean Bobo, dad." And Stiles says this with all the exasperation a teenager can have with a parent. "I mean, are there bears around these parts? Around this area?"

"I… don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"Huh. Scott told me that the girl's legs were torn off and—"

His dad gave him a dirty look but he continued anyway.

"—well, not so much as it was torn off but _clawed off_, y'know? I reckon maybe it's an animal? Which got me thinking, why are the cops still interrogating Scott? Unless they hadn't noticed it was claw marks? Unless – I haven't seen the body myself – it looks like it got clawed off but maybe it was hacked off in a really animalistic sort of way? And—"

"Enough, Stiles." His father's tone was serious and there was a warning in there. Stiles would ignore it on any other day but his dad's shoulders were tensed, his mouth drawn into a hard line. A flicker of something dawned on his face just then but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

"Stay here. I have to go take care of something. I'll be back in a minute."

Mr. Stilinski walked out with a backwards glance to his son, his gaze meaningful like he was daring Stiles to move an inch or else.

Stiles just shrugged his shoulders and tracked back to devouring his sandwiches.

* * *

><p>It took all of fifteen minutes for the door to creek open again. Stiles had his nose tucked in the paper – going over the Sudoku puzzle, answering it in his head – when he heard his dad pad over to him. The footsteps were strangely muted.<p>

"Hey, there's an ad here for a sweet looking jeep. Second hand. But it's an all-terrain, four-wheel auto and it's only a couple of hundred bucks! What do you say, da—" he made the mistake of looking up then and just about choked on his food.

"D-Derek." He finished lamely.

The werewolf was glaring down at him. His green eyes flickering blue then back again.

"What are you doing here?" Derek just about growled.

"Eating. Obviously. What are _you _doing here?"

"Your father wanted to see me."

"Really? I wonder sometimes though, man. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were stalking me." It was a joke, really it was. But Derek continued to glare.

Stiles suddenly found the swirling patterns on the marble table top intensely fascinating, giving it all his attention. He of course failed to see it when the corner of the wolf man's lips twitched for about as long as a heartbeat. Then it reverted back to a usual scowl.

"So…" there goes his mouth again with its silence-breaking compulsion. "About the body they found in the woods—"

"A dead body in the woods?"

"No, a body of water. Yes a _dead_ body! Seriously, dude, where have you been? Everyone's talking about it."

"Out," was Derek's reply. It's amazing how one word could sound so dismissive. The werewolf took his gaze away – _finally_ – to eye Mr. Stilinski's bookshelf. Taking in every worn-out spine and title.

Even though Derek wasn't looking at him, Stiles felt horridly exposed. He squirmed in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin and seriously!—

_How the fuck does Derek do this to him?_

A niggling sensation at the back of his mind told Stiles that there are a thousand things he and Derek should be talking about. A thousand things he should be asking but _isn't_ because he doesn't know what they are. Not yet.

For now, he puts all his apprehension on the backburner to instead ask:

"How's circus life treating you?"

Stiles regrets the words the moment they fly out of his mouth. He sounds ridiculous, he knows. And if Derek's expression is anything to go by, the werewolf's opinion on the matter is much the same.

But to Stiles' (and the general living space's and the vast cosmos') surprise, Derek answers.

"Well."

Stiles was struck dumb. He trips over his next words when he practically blurts, "good. No one giving you a hard time? You getting enough _Kibble_?"

He's pushing his luck but Derek doesn't appear to be gearing up for an attack in the next foreseeable future. And besides, Stiles really. Can't. Help. It.

Or... he could be wrong because the next thing he knew the werewolf was stalking closer. Stiles would back up against the wall if he weren't plastered against it already. And then Derek bent down so they were more or less at eye level.

Stiles had enough sense to process the fact that Derek smells like leather, old wood (the good kind), ash, grass and rain. It's not an objectionable smell. Stiles recalls what the werewolf had said yesterday, how Stiles smelled of lion and of Jackson.

_What does Jackson smell like? _He ponders. A lot different from Derek for sure. More human. More…

'Hugo Boss', maybe?

He's so distracted by his own thoughts that he misses it when Derek reaches out one strong hand to swipe his thumb over Stiles' lower lip and—

_Oh holy Jesus._ Derek was _touching_ him.

The movement was slow; almost as if it were deliberate. Derek dragged the pad of his finger along Stiles lip all the way up to the corner of his mouth were they remained for what felt like an eternity. Stiles was sure his eyes were bugging out of their sockets and that sound he's hearing isn't a rabbit jack hammering at his temple but is actually his heart thudding in his chest. He whimpers – honest to God _whimpers_ – and it was mostly intended as a question.

_Mostly?_

"You have ketchup all over your bottom lip." After a short pause, the werewolf adds. "You eat like an animal."

Was he kidding? Was Derek _fucking_ Hale actually _fucking_ kidding? Stiles couldn't fight down the bubbling of… of… _something_ in his lower belly.

He laughs nervously. Then his eyes just about fell out of his skull when Derek took back his hand and brought his thumb to his mouth to suck the said condiment off.

Stiles opens his mouth to say… _What? _What the hell was he going to say?

Nothing apparently because that's the time his father walks in. Derek quickly stood to his full height, expression turning grave and serious as he acknowledged Mr. Stilinski's presence.

"Derek, you're here. Good." The Ring Master huffs. Then he turns to his son, "Scott is by the props tent. Maybe you should go see him while I speak to Derek here." The _in private _was left unspoken. But Stiles got the message.

He got up on shaky legs. Stiles noticed belatedly that his throat had gone dry, like he lost the ability to form saliva. Maybe he did. Along with his ability to form words.

In place of a goodbye, Stiles gave his dad a mock salute and slinked out the door, which was promptly shut behind him.

He'd ponder on all the secrecy but son-of-a-bitch his lips were burning! Especially the area where Derek had touched him. He absently strokes his fingers over the tingling flesh. Stiles shakes his head violently and tries not to think hard about what it all means.

In fact, by the time he spotted Scott sitting morosely by the props tent, he had chalked it all up to the werewolf's inability to understand the meaning of personal space.

His best friend was sat beside Allison, who was comforting Scott by rubbing small circles on his back. (Fucking, score! Wait… inappropriate.) To one side was Danny, the Tallest Teen in the Midwest. Even as he was sitting, he towered over everyone else. On the other was Lydia with her Siamese twin Kate glued to her side. They all had varying levels of worry emanating from their person. Except for Jackson who was languidly leaning up against a crate to one corner, nearest Lydia. Their hands entwined. Stiles ignored the ache in his chest, the annoying pinpricking of jealousy and strolled on over.

Scott immediately clues Stiles in on his night. It had been horrible. (Horrible may not even be a strong enough word, Stiles' mind supplies.) The account spilled out of his mouth and Stiles caught it all because he was awesome and loyal and sympathetic. And if he was trying to make himself look good in front of Jackson, it was done subconsciously.

* * *

><p>It was around midnight when they had finally been allowed to pack up all their shit and caravan out of there. Scott was cleared and after further investigation, the police no longer had a missing person's case on their hands but an animal attack.<p>

And although Stiles had similar assumptions earlier that day, he couldn't help but think it was the wrong call.

The wheels on his trailer clunked dully as their circus caboose rode on into the night, lulling Stiles to sleep.

He was seconds away from unconsciousness when he suddenly remembered that he didn't have ketchup with any of his Sausage McMuffins that morning.


End file.
